Is it even possible to expand your bladder? I’ll check Google later. Maybe there are some exercises I can do.
“What is that?” Miles points to the open wardrobe, and I can’t help but notice that his voice is unusually high.
“What is what?” I peek around the door to see what’s got him keyed up, and my shoulder brushes against his chest. Heat radiates from his body, and, like a creeper, I can’t help but inhale his crisp, outdoorsy scent.
Real talk: the Airstream is cozy on a good day, but with Miles taking up all the space, it’s small as hell.
“Oh, that’s just Gizmo.” I squeeze in front of Miles and release the ties holding Gizmo’s hamster house in place before scooping it up. “He likes to sleep during the day, so I figured it would be better for him to travel in the camper.”
Gizmo lets out a loud squeak, and Miles steps back. There’s an inscrutable expression on his face, and for a second, I think it might be fear.
But that’s ridiculous. He can’t possibly be afraid of Gizmo.
Gizmo is soft and sweet and an excellent listener. Plus, he’s a vegetarian.
What’s not to like?
I hold the habitat out to Miles, but he takes another step back, retreating toward the front of the trailer. His eyes never stray from the little golden ball of fur inside the habitat.
Okay, then.
“You have a rodent for a pet.”
“Gizmo isn’t a rodent.” As if on cue, he squeaks in agreement. “He’s a hamster.”
“Which is a rodent.”
“Only in the technical sense,” I argue, moving to put his house on the tiny kitchen counter. “Would you like to hold him?”
Miles’s face twists into a mask of horror that says no, he definitely doesnotwant to hold my hamster. “No offense, but you couldn’t pay me to touch that thing.”
I shoot him a dark look and lean down to whisper to Gizmo. “Ignore him. He’s just grumpy because he’s a giant manbaby and his life is a mess. It’s not personal.”
“Exactly,” he retorts, crossing his ankles and leaning against the stove. “I dislike all rodents equally. I’m an equal opportunity rodent hater.”
“Your loss. Gizmo’s really very sweet, as long as you don’t get him wet or feed him after midnight.”
Miles groans. “Great. I’m going to get mauled in my sleep by a glorified rat.”
“Better make sure your insurance policy is up to date,” I suggest, opening the cabinet under the sink, which is covered with photos of places I’d like to travel someday. I grab Gizmo’s food and fill his dish before turning back to Miles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I vote we do something simple for dinner so we can crash and get an early start tomorrow.”
“Works for me. What can I do to help?”
“Why don’t you get a fire going outside? I’ll grab the beans and franks.” Because no way am I boiling hot dogs in this trailer. I can roll with the tiny closet and the visual assault of the seventies decor, but I draw the line at smelling like eau de convenience store.
“I’ll get the fire going,” Miles says, straightening, “but I’m not eating that.”
I pull a can of beans from the cabinet and try to remember where I saw the can opener. “Why not?”
“Because it’s disgusting.” He frowns. “Do you know what’s in a hot dog? I once read—”
I hold up a hand to cut him off, because if he continues down this path, we’re going to have issues.
Well, more issues. New issues?
Whatever.
“Don’t be so precious. Hot dogs are perfectly acceptable camp food.”
